At Christmas, My Niece Opened My Gift, Laughed, And Said, “An Ipad Mini? That’s It?” Then Tossed It Back At Me. I Stood Up, Stayed Calm, Gathered Every Present I’d Brought—16 Wrapped Boxes—And Carried Them Back To My Car. Dad Yelled, “Don’t Be Dramatic.” I Replied, “I’m Not—I’m Just Done.”

My name is Helen McCort. I was thirty-nine years old that Christmas, standing in my parents’ living room with a mug of lukewarm coffee cooling in my hands, trying to convince myself that this year might feel different.

It didn’t.

I’d driven in from the quiet suburb outside Columbus where Evan and I lived, through streets lined with inflatables and twinkling icicle lights that looked cheerful from a distance and exhausting up close. The sky was the color of a dishwater rinse, the kind of Ohio winter day where everything feels muted and damp, and the radio kept cutting in with cheerful holiday music like it was trying to talk me out of my own dread.

I arrived with my trunk packed like I was moving in.

Sixteen gifts, wrapped and labeled in my handwriting. Two casserole dishes because my mother always complained the food “wasn’t enough.” A bag of oranges and chocolate because my father liked to pretend he didn’t, until he was the one eating them. A small extra present for my dad’s neighbor, who somehow always just happened to show up and always left with something expensive.

I told myself it was easier to be generous than to deal with what happened when I wasn’t.

The house looked exactly the way it always did when my mother had hosted—like a showroom pretending to be a home. The tree was overdressed. Too many ornaments. Too much tinsel. Lights blinking in uneven rhythms. The smell of cinnamon candles fighting with the scent of ham that had been warming too long.

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